


Friday the Thirteenth

by a_nonny_moose



Series: Egotober 2017 [13]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 08:57:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12384975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: Things have changed. For better or for worse, things have changed.





	Friday the Thirteenth

“It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

Dark turned around slowly, controlled power, liquid grace. “Sorry?” he said, not sounding sorry at all. As if expecting an apology. 

Wilford stood in the doorway of his office, fingers still, for once. A hand at his hip. “It’s your birthday,” he said again, a statement instead of a question. 

Dark looked back at the windows, the blackness outside turning the glass into a mirror. A beat, and lighting flashed quietly outside. “So it is,” he said, quietly. “So it is.”

Wilford took a step into the office, hesitant, waiting for Dark to order him out. Instead, Dark sighed, turning away from the window, and took a seat. Not at his desk, in his high-backed chair, in power, but in one of two chairs at the coffee table. As an equal. He waved Wilford over, pouring them both a drink. 

“No keg stands, huh?”  


“I have a more refined taste, now, Will.”  


“Right,” Wilford muttered, taking the half-full glass of whiskey. A moment of silence. “You’ve changed, Dark.”  


“You can’t imagine.” Dark knocked his glass back, and a rumble of thunder shook the windows. “We both have, dear Colonel.”  


“To your health, Damien.” Will raised his glass in a mock toast before downing it.   


Dark was silent for a moment, running his fingers over the rim of his glass. Wilford had known him long enough to know what he was thinking about. 

“It couldn’t have gone any differently.”  


“I know.” They had this exchange every year, and each time, Dark sounded less and less convinced. “I know.”  


Wilford poured them both another glass, lost in thought. Dark took his with an inclination of his head as thanks, sitting back in his chair. He’d taken his tie off, unbuttoned his shirt, leaning back in his chair. Like this, Wilford thought, looking at him with a pang, he looked years younger. 

Dark looked over at Wilford, mustache tightly curled, cuffs buttoned carefully down to his wrists. A pink-washed imitation of the man he’d been, but at the same time, so much more. Wilford caught him staring, smiling sadly, and raised his glass. 

They drank together until the sun came up, Friday the 13th washed anew in the early morning light. 

It was a different day and age, a different dimension entirely. But they were the same, after all. They would always be the same. 

On the other hand, this was _Dark’s_ birthday, and there was mayhem to be caused. 

* * *

Dark woke up after a short rest with his head still spinning, liquid confidence brimming in his chest. What were birthdays but a peak, a renewal of power, after all? He sat up, and there was a fresh kind of grace to his limbs. His aura felt it too, lined in silver, ruby-red eyes hanging over his shoulder. Today was going to be a good day. 

Provided, of course, that no one intervened. 

Dark stepped out of his room in a fresh suit, looking forward to a day holed up in his office. Before he could do so much as close his door, however--

“Dark! You’re awake!”  


Dark sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “Good morning, Bim.”

Bim stood in front of him, beaming. “Happy birthday!”

“So it is.”  


Bim grinned, practically dancing from foot to foot. “C’mon, I-- we-- have a surprise for you.”

“I really do have work to do, Bim--”  


“Nonsense, it’s your birthday! There’s no work to be done on _birthdays_.” Bim, despite Dark’s protests and his own better judgement, seized his hand and whisked him downstairs. Dark’s aura followed them, growling and grumbling, smokey paws against carpeted stairs. 

Hurrying ahead of him, Bim blocked the door to the kitchen. “Close your eyes,” he demanded.

Dark took a deep breath. “Bim, is this really neces--”

Bim winked at him and flipped a morsel of bacon into the air. With a flash of pearly fangs, Dark’s aura caught it, licking her chops. A beat, and Bim held up a small, grease-stained bag. “Want to help?” he said, evidently intimidated, but addressing the dog nonetheless. 

Dark’s aura huffed through her nose, glancing at Dark, then back at Bim. Another huff, and her tongue lolled out of her mouth. 

Bim chuckled, throwing her another piece of bacon. “Dark, close your eyes.”

Dark started to protest again, but his aura wrapped around him, smoke obscuring his vision entirely. Finally, he sighed. “Fine.”

Bim giggled, pulling him into the room. Dark could only hear his aura ringing through space beside him, feel Bim’s hand against his back, guiding him into a chair. 

“Okay,” Bim said, and Dark heard him toss another bacon bit into the air. “Three... two... one!”  


Dark’s aura dissipated, and he opened his eyes to see the rest of the office seated around the dining table, beaming. 

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” Bim clapped his hands together, and Wilford waved a finger in the air. Glitter started to rain from the ceiling.   


Dark looked around with vague amusement as his aura snapped curiously at the glitter and confetti. 

The Host was seated next to him, arms folded stoically over his chest. Someone (Bim, most likely) had snapped a conical party hat over his head. Dark chuckled as the Host brushed glitter off of his shoulders, mumbling darkly. 

The Googles, on his other side, rolled their eyes in unison. Google_B looked over at Dark in mock sympathy, and Oliver sat with a bright yellow hat strapped to his head. Google_R was muttering to Google_G about the torque of a table laden with food when he caught Dark staring, and inclined his head politely. 

Dr. Iplier sat looking around at the rest of them with well-concealed terror, avoiding Dark’s end of the table. His fingers twitched lightly under the table, even shoulder-to-shoulder with the Host, and he shook himself free of glitter as Dark watched. 

Bim, across from the Doctor, was positively aglow with pride. Of course this was his and Wilford’s idea. Dark noticed Bim eyeing the cake in the center of the table, and took a moment to appreciate the sloppy chocolate frosting. 

Wilford stood at the other end of the table, a twinkle in his eye. “To Dam-- er--” he shook himself, smile dropping imperceptibly, “--to Dark!”

The slip was unnoticed by anyone else, and Dark caught his eye as the others clapped. Bim was the only enthusiastic one, Dark noticed, but at the moment, it didn’t quite matter. 

Wilford whipped out a kazoo from who-knows-where and began to hum ‘Happy Birthday,’ and it was all Dark could do to stop himself from breaking into a smile. Colonel William’s musical skill had certainly left a lot to be desired, but then again, so did Wilford Warfstache’s. They’d come a long ways since then.

Dark looked around at the table again, around at his aura, now happily taking bacon from Bim in return for swirling smoke around the room in intricate patterns. At the Doctor brushing glitter off of the Host’s back, at the Googles carefully cutting cake. At Will, beaming, flushed, across the table. 

And Dark could almost imagine that the Detective sat next to him, that it was Celine feeding his aura bits of food, that the Chef was serving him a plate of cake, that the Butler was telling the others off for dropping crumbs on the floor. For a moment, he could imagine that Wilford’s mustache was brown and bushy again, and the Colonel winked at him across the table. 

He could almost imagine that nothing had ever had to change. 


End file.
